


The Secret Name Of

by zulu



Category: House M.D.
Genre: 08-09, F/F, Female Protagonist, for:phinnia, house femslashathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-01
Updated: 2008-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Schrodinger's cat is both alive and dead if no one opens the box.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret Name Of

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phinnia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phinnia/gifts).



> Thanks to shutterbug_12 for reading an early draft and to roga for the beta.

**The Secret Name Of**

Remy applied to Dr. House's fellowship because she wanted revenge.

Not the most noble of motives. But then, from what she knows of Dr. House--rumours and rolled eyes, mostly--noble motives don't get you far with him.

The fact of the matter is that she was tired. Tired of all the careful, little looks that come from working with doctors who are on the lookout for symptoms. Looks that mean she's being treated like a patient, not a doctor.

She knew better than to become a surgeon, to take on any specialty that would involve manual dexterity. The shakes will come first (if they come, when they come), long before her mind or her personality goes; she wants to be able to keep her job for as long as possible, since it's all she'll have. (She is not going to inflict this on a family, when it comes. If it comes.)

If she gets the House fellowship, then no one needs to know. She'll be starting over, starting new. And that will show them: everyone who gossips about her, everyone who wonders why she hasn't taken the test yet, everyone who assumes. She doesn't need to make friends or make confessions. She's learned her lesson. She wants to live with a little mystery in her life.

When the call comes--dry, impersonal, telling her to show up in such-and-such a room, on such-and-such a date--Remy sits back in her kitchen chair and stares calmly at the phone, because she has practiced giving nothing away; certainly not the half-excited, half-terrified flutter of her heart.

The apartment will have to go. She'll move. It doesn't much matter. She's learned that there's not much use in worrying about the future.

She smiles a bit to herself, as if her anticipation is a secret even from herself. After all, once she gets the job--and she _will_\--secrets are all she'll have left.

*

"This will be the longest job interview in your life," Dr. House says, staring them all down as if there's nothing out of place about a department head in jeans and a t-shirt with an electric guitar strapped around his neck. He turns his attention to the chords he's fingering on his guitar's frets, twanging out a few notes that rip through the amp. "So what are you waiting for? Grab a number." He tips over a small box on the desk, spilling out a pile of runner's bibs.

It's like the first day of soccer camp, when the coaches bring out the jerseys. There's a rush for seven, nine, three; people like round numbers like ten and twenty. Remy sits back just long enough for the line to thin out, and then she stands up casually, watching the other candidates closely. Her favourite number is never taken. She finds the little placard left in the pile (seventeen and nineteen were also slow to go), and keeps it turned to her chest while staring down the glare of a woman holding #24.

Remy looks away first, only to find that House is watching her. Studying her. He must have seen what number she picked, and she has a disconcerting feeling that he knows exactly why. She smiles a bit and turns her face away. It's not like it will stay a mystery for long; as soon as she puts on the bib, she'll be the one who picked number thirteen. Unlucky thirteen.

If she takes on all superstitions she can find, she thinks, then maybe she'll get lucky the one time she really needs it.

*

After the histology confirms that Greta has Von Kippel-Lindau syndrome, House waves them all to the lecture hall. He waits for a minute, and Remy narrows her eyes at him. If he were anyone else, he'd be grinning. She can feel him savouring the moment, letting the tension grow. 6 (or 9) jiggles his knee under his desk. 24 catches her breath and then stops breathing entirely. Remy tries to hold back a small smile and lets House's little speech slide right over her. No matter whether the outcome's good or bad, at least she's practiced in the art of waiting.

After the axe falls, Remy leaves quickly. She's not interested in gloating, sympathizing, or bitterness. She's walking through the empty clinic when a voice says, "Good night, Dr. Hadley."

Remy stops and closes her eyes. Dr. Cuddy. She turns around slowly. There's no way to tell your boss's boss that you'd rather be known by a number; that the whole point of this job interview is that it's a chance not to be known. Dr. Cuddy is standing at the admit desk, holding an armful of folders as if she's used to taking work home. She raises an eyebrow and walks around the desk, closing the distance between them. It's not quite the same way House sets out a challenge, but it's not far off.

Remy swallows and then lifts her chin slightly. "You let House operate on Greta Cooper," she says.

Dr. Cuddy's eyes widen. "It was elective surgery."

Remy shakes her head. "It was diagnostic and you know it," she says. "House must have given you plausible deniability, or you never would have let it happen."

Unexpectedly, Dr. Cuddy smiles, bright and girlish. Remy blinks, her pulse picking up a bit. "I'm glad you understand," Dr. Cuddy says, with a hidden laugh. "Try to remember that..." She trails off, expectantly, waiting for a name. Remy knows it's part of the game, since she must already know.

But she says, "Remy," and thrusts a hand out, as if they've just met. Dr. Cuddy's skin is smooth, her handshake firm and warm. Remy meets her eyes, and she wonders what they're agreeing to, if House will take this as a betrayal. It feels too good to be entirely innocent.

Dr. Cuddy's smile changes, deepens. "Good night, Remy," she says again, her voice a note softer, more meaningful. Remy's eyes widen, and her lips feel dry. A moment later, Dr. Cuddy takes her hand back and walks out of the clinic.

Remy watches her go and smiles.

Lisa, she thinks. Lisa.

*

Remy keeps her hospital badge in her pocket whenever she can. She doesn't ask HR for a Princeton-Plainsboro email address or for a personalized parking space. She picks up her pay stubs instead of having them mailed to her new apartment.

House must know her name. If he didn't, he'd probably organize a raid of the Census Bureau to discover it. If he's willing to let her play this game, then it's because it suits him. It's part of the game he's built for himself, which has its own rules, ones he's made up and that he'll follow as long as they amuse him.

The rest of the candidates are another thing altogether. House is teaching them to question everything, to believe in lies before the truth, to pick and prod and wonder. But he lets her keep her secrets, probably because it'll be more satisfying when Amber or Kutner or Cole figures it out for themselves and then spreads the gossip.

It surprises Remy, at first, that Cuddy allows it. That she plays along with House. She seems to enjoy his games--or at least, the times when she yanks the leash back because he goes too far.

But she is passing in the hall outside House's hospital room after (one of them is always 'just passing', to be sure, to be safe), and she sees Cuddy go in. It's not hard to overhear, when the door doesn't slide all the way closed.

"You employed her. You're responsible."

There's fury in Cuddy's voice, finality. Remy clenches her fists, driving her fingernails into her palms, concentrating on the pain.

Cuddy and House might be playing together, but their rulebooks are completely different. And there's not much difference between plausible deniability and mystery. Cuddy must know everything that Remy tried to leave behind.

She doesn't know whether to be grateful or guilty. She doesn't know if she still has a job. She makes sure she's nowhere near House's room when Cuddy leaves.

*

Gravity feels heavier when she gets off the elevator coming up from the morgue. She feels exhausted, wiped blank, even though she has a job to come back to tomorrow. Remy doesn't quite manage not to look into Cuddy's office as she passes. There's only one light on, the lamp on the desk. Cuddy is sitting and staring at her paperwork, but it seems that she's forgotten she's holding a pen.

Remy sticks her hands into her pockets, pushes her shoulders back. She looks out the doors, and then back, before she takes the last few steps and opens Cuddy's door without knocking. Cuddy lifts her head, and she looks shut down, the way Remy feels. Like she's swallowing back tears. House is her friend, no matter what else goes on between them. He nearly died.

"Hi," Remy says. She presses her palms against her thighs, where it won't show if they tremble.

"Did you need something?" Cuddy's so much the Dean of Medicine right now, abrupt and severe. Cut off.

Remy sets her jaw, forces herself to meet Cuddy's flat stare. "House didn't fire me."

"Did you need me to do it instead, Dr. Hadley?"

So they're back to that. Playing games with names. "No," she says. She's a grown up. She doesn't need to be spanked like a tantrumy child to get the message. "I want to know why you blamed him."

Cuddy sits back in her chair and studies her for what feels like forever. The mask falls slowly, but when it's gone, Remy can see how tired she is, how lost, and how _angry_ at being told there's nothing she can do. "He needs to feel responsible. He never should have played games with a man's life without knowing the answer."

Remy nods. And if either of them believed for an instant that he'd change, what would they do with themselves? "Are you angry with me?"

Cuddy shakes her head. "That shouldn't have happened, Remy."

She knows. She knows. She swallows hard against the lump in her throat. There's no point in saying she's sorry. "If that's how responsibility works, then don't blame me because you hired him," she says.

"I don't," Cuddy says. "I blame myself."

*

Remy doesn't believe in ghosts. Schrodinger's cat is both alive and dead if no one opens the box. Nothing can haunt her if there's still a chance, still hope.

Some people chase down maybes as if they're promises. House is like that. He needs rules so that he can break them; he needs to break them to see how they're built, and why, and what the real rules underneath are. That's how he diagnoses, by digging, by destroying.

Remy watches him and asks _what if?_ Maybe there's a possibility, a detour, a last resort. Maybe there's another solution, one that means their patient will live.

Relationships are like that, too. And Cuddy is certainly something different. Remy finds herself waiting for the moment Cuddy shows up to yell at House, when she can glance through the glass and allow herself this moment of seeing a beautiful woman instead of her boss's boss.

They've had these late night chats. Remy has learned the rhythm of when Cuddy will be staying long past the clinic's hours (almost always, the night that House solves a case). But it grows, changes, until somehow she knows how Cuddy takes her coffee, and her usual midmorning walk around the hospital as if she's reminding herself of just how much she's accomplished, how much is hers.

Remy doesn't know how she fits into Cuddy's pattern, except that Cuddy seems to be looking the same way she is. Their eyes meet during a differential. They nod good night to each other in the parking lot.

When they're alone, Cuddy calls her Remy. Remy smiles each time, like a blush, because now that no one knows her name, it feels startlingly intimate, like a caress no one else can see.

But Remy doesn't believe in ghosts. She believes in alive or dead, one or zero, and she believes more than anything in putting off the answer. If she doesn't ask, then Cuddy can't end the thrill of waiting, of maybe, of _what if_.

Besides, Remy hasn't decided which terrifies her more: the thought of kissing Lisa only to have her say _no_\--or of the hot sweetness of her answering kiss, of the moment she says _yes_.

*

The test for Huntington's is very simple. A blood test. Count the number of CAG repeats on each allele of the HTT gene. If one spins out, twisted, abnormally long: that's yes. If they're the same, then it's no. If the blood test is pre-symptomatic, then it's not even definite enough to call a diagnosis. It's only an answer.

Thunder smashes and grumbles outside the hospital. Remy stands on the balcony above the clinic, watching the shadow of raindrops cascade down the glass of the sunlights. She's still holding House's peony, turning it between her fingers.

She's looking down when Cuddy leaves her office. Lightning fills the lobby with a sudden brilliance, and the crash of thunder follows so closely that Remy knows she's in the center of the storm. Cuddy looks up, and Remy feels like she should say something--or throw down the flower, in some weirdly theatrical gesture. Instead, Cuddy's the one who turns to the stairs and starts up, moving beside her at the railing, until they're both staring down into the clinic. For once, Cuddy isn't carrying armfuls of paperwork, only her purse and a rolled umbrella. She stands close enough to Remy that she can feel the whisper of her jacket's fabric against her sleeve.

"I used to go out running in a storm like this," Cuddy says. "I'd collect hailstones. My brother always laughed at me, but I think he was scared to come out of the house."

Remy dips her head, imagining Lisa Cuddy, wild and wet, her black hair plastered back from her face, her skin chilled pale and dripping, her eyes brightly, perfectly alive. She imagines the taste of rainwater, warm from Lisa's lips. "Why the umbrella, then?" she asks.

Cuddy's glance is arch. "I've learned something about taking risks," she says.

Remy can't help her smile. "You should do it again," she says. Their fingers on the railing are nearly touching, and Remy moves her hand the last of the distance. "I'll go with you."

*

They're both soaked before they make it to Cuddy's car. They spend the drive with the fans and the heater blowing, trying to push away the rush of condensation across the windshield. When Cuddy parks in front of her house, Remy is the first out of the car. She traps Cuddy against the door, under the cold sweep of rain, and kisses her, their breath steaming around them.

"How long have you wanted to do this?" she asks, pulling back.

Cuddy lifts a hand to her face and brushes a thumb across her cheekbone, wiping the rain away. She's still smiling when she asks, "Did you come with me so that you could get answers?"

"Eventually," Remy says, because she's been working for House long enough to know that she likes to solve puzzles, but maybe not long enough to lie with every breath.

Cuddy laughs, and presses forward, her thigh slipping between Remy's. She kisses Remy, and the taste is just as she imagined, sweet and clean and warm, and even better for being real. "Let's go inside," she says.

Cuddy pulls her clothes from her before they've even gone farther than the living room. The air is cold, but Cuddy's body is warm, curved, perfect, and once they're on the bed, Remy wraps her legs around Cuddy's and kisses her again. Their wet hair tangles between them, catches on their lips. Remy smoothes her way down Cuddy's body, rubbing in warmth, and follows her fingers with her tongue. Cuddy's nipples pucker under Remy's tongue, and she holds Remy's head to her breast, her body arching upwards.

Remy wants to tell her that she's beautiful, she's gorgeous, but more than anything right now, she is overwhelmed by Cuddy's strength. Not only the long, ecstatic clench of her muscles, but the way that she wants, frankly, whispering desire. She tilts her head back on the pillow, her hands curling in the sheets and then in Remy's hair, pressing her closer, lifting up, up, _wanting_ so clearly that Remy moans against her, licks over her clit, slides two fingers inside. "Oh, yes," she says, and she says Remy's name like a chant when she comes. Remy kisses her, and she kisses back eagerly, rolling them over and sitting up astride Remy with a wicked smile on her face.

Remy pants and admires the view, Cuddy's stomach and breasts and the messy straggle of curls over her shoulders, the slick feel of Cuddy against her thigh. Under Cuddy's gaze, the patient tease of her fingertips drifting down Remy's body, she feels like she doesn't have a single secret. The thought sets her heart racing, but Cuddy only watches, before pushing her hair back and kissing every part of Remy that's been aching for touch for too long: her collarbone, her elbow, her navel. Cuddy's fingers are cool but her mouth is hot, her tongue swirling against Remy's skin.

"Lisa," she gasps. "God, _yes_\--"

It's easy, easy, to push up against Cuddy's thigh, to rock against her as her pleasure spirals higher, as Cuddy continues to kiss and touch and hold her. She bucks up hard, and Cuddy moans against her breast. They fumble until they find a rhythm, a breathless tangle that becomes more and more desperate until Remy finally comes with Cuddy's fingers working across her clit.

They're slow to end it. There seems to be so much skin to stroke, so many murmured kisses to share. Remy closes her eyes and traces Cuddy's lips with a fingertip and then with light, tiny kisses. At last, she lies back, and Cuddy leans on her elbow, studying her.

"You still haven't taken the test for Huntington's," she says.

Remy feels frozen so suddenly that she doesn't even roll off the bed and reach for her clothes. "What?" she says, like there isn't enough air in the room to ask the question.

Cuddy brushes a hand down between her breasts, to her stomach, to her hip, a long, calming stroke. "I have your file. Your last reference mentioned it."

"Why did you call?"

"It's my job to know everything," Cuddy says. She meets Remy's eyes. "I've known for as long as I've known your name. If you think I've treated you differently--"

"No," Remy says, and turns her face away. "I don't want to talk about it."

"If you work for House long enough, eventually you'll want to know," Cuddy says. She lies down behind Remy, a separate person again, a separate presence.

Remy closes her eyes. Breathes. Feels Lisa's body curled warm around her, her breath in her ear.

She doesn't make any promises.

*

Lisa is a strange secret to have.

Remy finds herself smiling more at House's jokes, because her joke is better than all of his. When he starts prodding pointedly at her bisexuality, she very nearly runs straight to Lisa and asks if she's told. But House takes her surprise as confirmation, and leaves it at that. He takes more interest when he finds out about the Huntington's, when he presses her to get tested.

"Not knowing makes me do things I'm scared to do," she tells him, and after work, she goes home to Lisa, and kisses her long and lingering and slow.

"Hey," Lisa says, smiling up at her. "What was that for?"

"Nothing," she says, and tries to smile.

*

Not knowing makes her brave. Lisa makes her want to know.

The test results, when they come, seem so ordinary: just like every other test she's been running for months, one more set of numbers on a computer printout. Remy crumples the paper and leaves the lab.

When she gets to Lisa's place, she almost doesn't go in. They've been doing this for--how long? Months. She should know the date, but she doesn't. Amber is dead, and Lisa's been staying in the hospital with House, nearly every night this week. He's still weak, but he's out of the woods now, and Remy woke Lisa at his bedside and promised to make the nurses page her if anything happens.

"I just have one thing to take care of," she said, before sending Lisa home.

This one thing. This death sentence. This sword that's been dangling over her life for as long as she can remember. It's finally fallen, and Remy doesn't know what to feel.

There's only a lamp on when she walks in. Lisa's curled on the couch, and Remy can see that she's been crying. Remy sits beside her, pulls her close, slides her arms around Lisa's waist. She leans down to touch their foreheads together. It's warm and comfortable and everything they've become to each other.

Remy's lived for twenty years with maybes. There are too many certainties in her life, and too many secrets. She hates them. Maybe she's worked for House long enough, because more than anything, more than anything else in the world right now, she wants to know.

"I love you," she says, and she waits without breathing for Lisa's answer.

 

_end_


End file.
